Outsider
by artyfan
Summary: He was used to being an outsider. He had never belonged anywhere. Now, he was shocked to learn that he did belong somewhere-the place which seemed the least likely place for him to be accepted.
1. Chapter 1

**Okay, guys. This is my first real attempt at writing Murtagh, so can you tell me how I did, offer suggestions? I really can't write him. He doesn't click with me. Also, I can't remember what Vanir looks like, and my friend has my copy of _Eldest_. If anyone could tell me, it would be great.**

Murtagh examined her face carefully, his own guarded.

He had to admit that she was beautiful, like all elves. He had seen many over the past few weeks, though he had spoken to few. Most were slender but strong, with the wild grace of an animal. With their honeyed voices and exotic features, they appeared almost too perfect to him.

She-Arya, he remembered her name was-was different. He didn't know what it was. There was something about her that he recognized, something that reminded him of himself.

He scowled, looking away from her. Thorn was hunting. He could feel his dragon's presence in his mind, a soothing constant. The only being he could be certain of in a forest of elves. Someone who wouldn't judge him, someone who wasn't disgustingly perfect.

He wanted to go home.

But where was home? Uru'baen? He snorted with disgust. He had lived there as a slave, feared, but abused.

Ellesmera certainly wasn't it. The elves were flawless, their movements effortless, their courtesy never wavering. Even to him.

It was pathetic, but the closest to a home he had ever felt he had had been when he was a prisoner of the Varden. He had been comfortable-well fed, given anything he wanted from the library, and frequently visited.

The elves were willing to do all that and more, but he didn't want their company. They weren't like him. They weren't even close.

* * *

><p>Murtagh sat, poring over the scroll. It had been left on his desk, there when he had returned.<p>

It was a fictional tale, the story of a Rider that never was. He read slowly, the glyphs unfamiliar to him. Pretty, but foreign, something he struggled to understand.

_A Rider that sat atop a dragon that glittered green..._

_Both so pure at heart, they would never consider betraying the Order if their lives were the only cost..._

A fantasy. No human would do that. For any human, everything else came second to the lives of them and their families. But no, elves just had to be perfect, didn't they?

The story didn't end happily. Not for Deriven and Verdel. They died together, resisting evil.

Their ending was happier than Murtagh and Thorn's had been.

Without them, the war wouldn't have ended. Yet people looked at them with fear, loathing, while Eragon and Saphira were hailed as heroes. He had been the one who had freed Eragon from the dungeons in Galbatorix's castle.

Murtagh was jerked from his thoughts by a quiet knock at the door. He raised a sharp eyebrow-that hadn't happened before.

"Come in," he called brusquely, unnecessarily loudly. An elf entered the room. Murtagh looked over, his dark eyes speculative.

The elf was dark haired and fit. The war was over, yet he carried a sword at his hip.

_Because of me,_ Murtagh assumed bitterly, standing up. _Terrified I'll attack him._

The elf twisted his hand in front of his chest, bowing slightly. He initiated the greeting. Murtagh replied curtly, waiting for the elf to explain what he wanted.

"I am Vanir," the elf informed him in the ancient language. "I was aware that you have remained here for some time now, and I wondered if you would like to come spar with me."

Surprised, Murtagh looked at him more closely. Vanir's face was smooth and inscrutable.

"Did someone send you?" he demanded, responding in the same tongue. Vanir had no significant reaction to that, but his eyes narrowed ever so slightly.

"No," he replied simply, coolly. "I merely thought you would enjoy company. I have but rarely made the acquaintance of humans, and I presume your experience with elves is similarly limited."

_He's more opposed to the fact that I'm a human than the fact I was Galbatorix's slave?_ Murtagh thought in disbelief. He felt the strangest urge to laugh, a delicious feeling he hadn't felt in much time.

He reached for his sword. "Company would be nice. I'll be down momentarily."


	2. Chapter 2

**Hello, readers. This chapter-and story-is dedicated to Restrained Freedom, a truly wonderful person who has been very encouraging. He went very far out of his way to try and find me a description of Vanir, despite the fact that his copy of Eldest was loaned out. He deserves a round of applause (applauds). He is a very good writer, and a very nice person. So go read his stories.**

**I've just realized a bigger problem than Murtagh-Thorn. We don't know anything about him, so I have no idea how to do this. Tell me if you have any advice, or suggestions, or if you just want to say hi. Or tell me you hate me, that's okay too. I really couldn't think of what to write, so I need INSPIRATION! Again, if you know what Vanir looks like, please tell me.**

In one motion, Murtagh knocked the sword out of Vanir's hand, then placed the tip of his blade at the elf's throat. He smiled a small, tight-lipped smile of satisfaction.

Without the Eldunarí, his strength wasn't that of an elf. They moved faster, struck harder. But he had trained, trained hard. He could defend himself, and, even without the Eldunarí, could hold his own.

He lowered his blade, allowing Vanir to bend to retrieve his weapon. When he stood up again, Murtagh asked, "Again?"

Vanir smiled. "Of course."

And the elf lunged forward.

* * *

><p>Murtagh returned to his room, weary and sore, but still happier than he had been in over a year.<p>

_Enjoying yourself?_ Thorn asked dryly. Murtagh didn't answer, instead lying down, staring at the ceiling. Thorn knew the answer. It wasn't a question.

_How did hunting go?_ Murtagh said instead, lifting the scroll again.

_Well enough,_ Thorn replied.

They lapsed into silence again. Murtagh's eyes scanned the scroll slowly. The elves and Riders were now gathering for Deriven's funeral, mourning for the loss of their friend, who had only been separated from his bond after they were both dead.

They were dead, and Vrael was speaking, honouring bravery and decency...

_"Deriven and Verdel will be missed. They were among the bravest of our Order, some of the best we have to offer. None could compare with Deriven's art, nor with Verdel's flight..."_

_Saphira and Shruikan can,_ Thorn murmured. Murtagh sighed, his eyes closing.

_Shruikan _could_,_ he corrected. _Not anymore. Saphira tried talking to him. She's still trying. He doesn't respond, he doesn't even know who he is anymore! He can still fly, still fly well, but it doesn't matter to him. He doesn't care enough to test himself._

Thorn fell silent, discontented. Then-_He's confused. He's mad. But he is a dragon. Flight matters to us, no matter what we know. Flight is part of what we are. Our wings are as essential as our teeth, or claws, or scales. Our minds._

_That's good, seeing as he doesn't even have his mind anymore,_ Murtagh shot back, relapsing into his previous mood.

_He does,_ Thorn insisted. He refused to say anymore.

Murtagh shoved the scroll away from him, as if touching the fragile paper repulsed him, as if even the thought of people that were considered to be true heroes angered him...

He rose, adjusted his tunic, then moved to the door. The libraries had better selections. In there, not all the volumes were mindless praise of the Riders. There were the works of some intelligent people, people who knew better than to waste their lives and talent writing works that contained nothing but praise for the Order.

* * *

><p>Murtagh sat down. There were few elves in the library, but he still sat in the corner furthest from the door. For a moment, he stared without reading, his eyes fixated on the scroll. Then he realized what he was doing and shook his head.<p>

His eyes moved from the words he didn't register to the the fine artwork that decorated the scroll. Then his eyes fell upon words that made him stiffen, his eyes hardening.

_Eragon Shadeslayer._

He read the poem.

He couldn't simply be a hero, could he? He had to be a bard, too.

Murtagh read the poem again. _Ceased to fear Death's embrace?_ Eragon might believe that, but Murtagh disagreed. When the other Rider had written it, he had certainly feared descending into what he knew not.

Near him, Murtagh heard the low whispers of elves, so quiet he only caught a few disconnected words.

Unable to sit there any longer, now that the quiet had been disturbed, if only slightly, he stood up and walked away.

But he brought the poem with him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Hi. I bring to you a chapter containing the ramblings of a girl struck by writer's block. So...help? Drop me a review with advice or something, please. This is dedicated to Restrained. Freedom, so go read his stories. Oh, and review! His or mine, either or. I _really _don't like the way I portrayed Murtagh in this chapter...And if anyone is willing to be my beta, PM me.**

The black throne had been struck down, the throne room destroyed, but the pavilion that sheltered Islanzadí's throne was very much in use. A table had been brought in, surrounded by seven chairs.

Islanzadí sat between Eragon and Arya. Nasuada was across from Arya, between Orrin and Orik. Saphira sat in no chair, instead lying across the floor in the corner of the room, a watchful eye on the proceedings.

"Shall we begin, then?" Orrin asked, looking to Islanzadí for confirmation. It was the Varden's leader who actually answered him.

"No," Nasuada said, not as firmly as she would have. Arya had grown to know Nasuada well, and she knew that the young woman was unnerved, in awe of her surroundings, a city she had never expected to see. "We need Murtagh."

"Why?" Orik demanded, a hand on his axe. Arya frowned at him, an expression so subtle few would be able to notice it. He, unlike Nasuada, felt no awe for the elven capital. He had seen it before, and felt that it held no beauty for him-he did not belong among trees and elves and endless green. "What need do we have of a murderer on our council?"

Arya spoke up then, her quiet voice heard just as easily as Nasuada's. "He is a Rider. Trust him or not, that is your own decision, but he has just as much of a place here as Eragon."

"Eragon never betrayed us!" Orik protested. "He didn't try to kill us all!"

"He had no option but to follow every one of Galbatorix's commands," Eragon pointed out. "Without him, we never would have won the war."

Orrin and Orik both began to object loudly, trying their hardest to drown the other out, seeming to forget their manners, as well as who held all the power in that room. Orrin had spent much time in silence, looking around the forest in wonder. Now he was arguing louder than ever. It was Islanzadí who ended it, striking the table with her palm.

"Enough!"

She received the silence that she demanded instantly. Sitting around the table with her were kings, leaders, and a Rider. But she had the most power. She commanded their respect, especially in her domain.

"This is childish," she enunciated slowly. "We are here for a purpose, and I will not stand for pointless bickering delaying what must be done."

She nodded to Nasuada. "In this case, I agree-whether we trust him or not, he must be here. I shall summon him."

Neither Orik or Orrin dared to argue with the Queen of the Elves. They might contradict Nasuada, but never Islanzadí.

A hint of a smile played across Arya's lips.

* * *

><p>"Shur'tugal." The elf bowed his silver head to Murtagh, twisting his hand in front of his sternum and initiating the greeting. Murtagh sighed to himself, but replied.<p>

"My queen requests your presence. She says it is of the utmost importance."

Murtagh raised an eyebrow, standing to follow the elf. Neither elf nor Rider spoke.

They wove through the trees, Murtagh following at a distance. They encountered few, elves who silently touched their first two fingers to their lips at the sight of the two.

They reached the white pavilion that sheltered Islanzadí's throne. Though the queen was there, the throne was empty. She sat at the head of a table in front of it, facing Murtagh. The elf who had brought him there knelt to her. Murtagh remained upright.

When the kneeling elf rose and left, Islanzadí motioned for Murtagh to join them. He walked over to the table, sitting in the chair between Arya and Orrin.

"Welcome, Rider," Islanzadí greeted him as he sat. "As I am sure you know, we are here to draft the accords. We would like to have you upon our council."

Murtagh arched a sharp brow at her. Drafting the accords. He inclined his head slightly. Islanzadí nodded curtly.

"Arya?" she prompted. Arya passed him a sheet of paper, with the names of everyone around the table already on it. "Please sign, so we can begin."

There was a quill and pot of ink before him. Murtagh lifted the quill, dipping it into the ink, then wrote his name in an elegant hand. Handwriting was something he had been forced to practice as a child. He had loathed it then, and he loathed it now. He formed his letters in the same way his father had. His name had his father's in it. _Murtagh Morzansson._

He set down the quill. Orik began speaking immediately. "Each individual race should have the right to govern their people as they choose to!"

"We need a new system," Nasuada reasoned. "The old Order failed because too much power was divided amongst too few people. The people who had that power were chosen by ways no one had any control over. There must be more people, of every species, making the decisions that affect Alagaësia."

_She's missing the point,_ Murtagh thought. He had spent long studying the surviving scrolls from the time of the Riders. The true flaw with their system hadn't been what Nasuada seemed to think. She hadn't read the scrolls, hadn't taken the time to go through all the records that the elves had of the time...

If the system turned out like Nasuada seemed to wish, it would fail. The power would still be divided amongst few, if few from different species. The commoners wouldn't be able to voice their opinions. Only the wealthy, the powerful, the influential would have any say in matters that concerned them alone. With Nasuada's logic, every criminal would be brought to court at the capital, punished by the country's leader. Foolish. A waste of time. Just like what the Riders had done.

Cities could form courts of their own, juries of the people deciding the correct punishment for a crime. It would waste less time, as well as dividing up the power like Nasuada thought should be done.

Murtagh realized Arya was speaking. He pulled himself from his thoughts to listen.

"King Orik, a change to Alagaësia does not mean that the way individual communities must change the way they govern their people. There should be representatives from each community, chosen by the people, to form a council, if you will. That council has power, which must be used rarely. They shall govern Alagaësia as a whole. They will have no power over the individual states."

That seemed to appease Orik. He nodded once. Murtagh's impassive eyes flickered over to Islanzadí. He was sure that he had the power to stop the arguments instantly, likely getting her way while she did so. But she remained silent. Political strategy? Maybe. Humans were predictable. Elves? Never.

He had a better grasp upon their actions than many-he had been well educated, he had the inclination to study old scrolls, and he was interested in psychology. People's reasoning for their actions fascinated him.

Except for his own. He didn't understand his own reasoning, didn't know himself well enough, and honestly didn't care to.

Eragon was predictable. Even those who didn't know him would be able to predict what he would do. Orik and Orrin-blunt as an axe, the both of them. Nasuada was more subtle. For many, her actions were inexplicable.

It was Arya and Islanzadí that Murtagh didn't understand. Arya was less foreign than Islanzadí, something that may have resulted from the years spent among humans. The queen was volatile and unpredictable. He didn't understand her, but he knew one thing-he shouldn't anger her.

"I feel I am being a poor host," she spoke up suddenly, proving Murtagh's thoughts true. "Please, join me for a meal. We have much to discuss, and we can do so in a more pleasant environment."


	4. Chapter 4

**Hey. I'm really sorry about how long this took. I'm also sorry that once I finally got around to updating, it's so short. I've been really busy with homework and such. Balancing a social life with homework leaves very little time for writing. And robotics. That's hard to work around. This story is dedicated to the awesome Restrained. Freedom. I hope I still have readers...**

Murtagh ate his stew slowly, glancing at the others around the table. Islanzadí was sitting the table's head, engaging Nasuada in conversation. Eragon and Arya were murmuring in low voices. From the vague expressions on their faces, Murtagh guessed that Saphira was joining in on their conversation.

Orik was mumbling furiously to Orrin, who was replying in kind.

"What do you think, Murtagh?" came Islanzadí's voice.

Murtagh swore silently. He had been so busy watching, he hadn't thought to listen. _Thorn? What did she say?_

_She wants to know if you think that leadership should be passed down within families, Agree with her. _Thorn told him lazily. Murtagh kept his face impassive. What did she want to hear? What had she said? What was he agreeing to?

"No," he said, struggling to keep his voice under control. "No, I agree with you."

A satisfied expression seemed to cross her face for the briefest moment. Her eyes returned to Nasuada. She resumed the conversation. By listening for a few more moments, Murtagh was able to decipher Nasuada's stance, but not Islanzadí's. Nasuada believed power shouldn't be held by families. She believed the monarchy should be abolished. As for what Islanzadí thought...he didn't know.

He watched her from the corner of his eye. She resembled Arya a great deal, but while Arya seemed able to stay relatively unnoticed, Islanzadí's presence drew attention the way honey drew ants.

Murtagh tore his gaze away from the mother and daughter, his eyes moving to Saphira. She lay in the corner, eyelids drooping. Her large eyes were fixated on Eragon and Arya, whose heads were bent together.

Murtagh followed her gaze to look at Eragon. He seemed to be struggling to respond to Arya's comments. He couldn't hear what she was saying, but her emerald gaze was piercing.

He returned his attention to his meal, eating carefully. His left hand reached for the goblet of _faelnirv _by his plate. His nimble fingers curled around the goblet's stem, but he didn't raise it to his mouth, didn't swallow the elven liqueur. Orik, Orrin, and Nasuada were all drinking.

Murtagh stared at the goblet for a moment, before raising it to his lips. The liqueur was smooth, sweet, unlike any he had tasted before.

"Excuse me," he muttered, standing up. Islanzadí inclined her head, acknowledging his departure. Arya tilted her head to one side, catlike green eyes watching him go.

Murtagh left, doing his best to maintain his composure. He heard someone call his name before he had taken five steps into the open.

He turned to see Vanir approaching, two fingers pressed to his lips. They exchanged greetings.

"I see your meeting with Queen Islanzadí has ended," Vanir observed. "Would you care for an evening spar?"

Murtagh hesitated – go to the apartment he had been given and read, or spend time with the elf who had become, almost a _friend?_

He nodded.


	5. Chapter 5

**Okay, I have a question to ask you. I just finished my next chapter, and I was about to post it, but...I want to know this first. Do you guys still want to read this now that _Inheritance_ has come out? Would you mind the fact it's an AU?**


	6. Chapter 6

**Hi, guys. In this chapter, I'm going to try something I'm way more comfortable with writing – Arya's perspective. I think I can think like her more than I can think like Murtagh, even though I'm writing that Murtagh has no clue how she thinks. I mean...Arya completely bewilders me, but Murtagh? Way more. Either way, drop me a review to say which you like better. So, last comment – what did you guys think of Inheritance? I thought...it was freaking terrible. This story is dedicated to Restrained. Freedom.  
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Arya set down her fork neatly at the edge of her place. She reached for her tea, clenching the goblet between her hands. The scent of mint drifted up to her nose.

She took a small sip, nervous for a reason she could not comprehend.

Eragon was looking at her with concern. She ignored him. She set down her tea. _Focus. Calm yourself._

Within seconds, her breathing had returned to normal. She smiled, just a small smile, one of satisfaction. She had learned control. Control her anger, control her fear, control her pride. She had learned to control herself.

Eragon couldn't do that.

His movements would betray him. He couldn't lie, he couldn't even evade the truth.

His half brother, on the other hand, could. His emotions were hidden to her. No amount of observation could reveal his thoughts to her.

She was loathe to admit it...but she was impressed.

She returned her attention to Eragon, nodding at him to indicate he should continue, continue with his clumsy arguments. He did so, defending his – or rather, Nasuada's – stance. Oh, he didn't realize it, but he was simply parroting her beliefs. He hadn't been exposed to enough to take his own position. He would have to be. A Rider with little understanding of politics...

Arya stood up, glancing at Eragon, indicating he should come with her. "I must take my leave. I have matters to which I must attend."

Islanzadí nodded. Arya was careful not to run. She moved at a measured pace, Eragon a few steps behind her. Saphira remained where she was, fixing large eyes on Orik and Orrin.

"We have much to discuss," Arya murmured when Eragon caught up with her. She took his elbow, tugging him out into the forest. She didn't stop until she had reached Eragon and Saphira's tree.

"What is it?" Eragon asked her, eyes alert. She sighed, impatiently. His constant concern wearied her. His wide brown eyes were filled with an inexplicable innocence, despite the bloodshed he had seen. She didn't understand. Just like him. There was so little he understood.

"Oromis taught you well, just as Brom did. But there is so much you don't know. Brom had little time, and was largely concerned with keeping you alive. He felt that history mattered not. Oromis disagreed, but he was forced to rush over your education, giving you only the most superficial details."

Arya paused. Eragon seemed to be approaching anger now, anger at the insult to his mentors. Her own slanted eyes narrowed in anger, in warning. "I do not seek to insult either of them. I am merely saying your education was not nearly what it could have been. I have scrolls I would like you to read. You need a further understanding of politics. It would hardly be...wise...for a Rider to know so little about how to...how to manipulate."

"Are you going to have Murtagh read the same scrolls?" Eragon asked. Arya allowed herself a small, amused smile.

"I don't need to. I think he already knows. Certain advantages do come with growing up in Galbatorix's castle, Eragon. He was certainly a tyrant, and he obviously prohibited anyone in his Empire from reading anything he didn't want them to, but anyone in his castle had access to extraordinary works." Arya almost had to prevent a longing look from stretching across her face. She herself had always had access to her people's finest works. But there were still works in Uru'baen, wonderful books and scrolls she had never had an opportunity to read. Islanzadí had suggested that she take the time before going home. She had wanted to accept, but she had thought that she needed to be present during the tedious meetings.

"Would you like to give me these scrolls now?" Eragon asked her. Arya nodded. She darted away from him, weaving through the trees, toward Tialdari Hall. Eragon followed her uncomfortably closely, nearly touching her.

She moved a little faster, just enough to avoid him. He sped up with her. Arya resisted the urge to speed up even further to keep away from him. She was not a child.

For some reason, she had to continue repeating that to herself as they made their way to her home.

Arya handed Eragon an armload of scrolls. Her shoulders had tensed, her face inscrutable once again. She had to force herself to give them to him, resist the urge to seize them back. She didn't know why. She had never felt that way before.

Those scrolls had been a present from her father. The last gift to his daughter.

She was always wary about allowing others to read them. But she trusted Eragon. He had saved her life. He would know not to harm her scrolls.

"Thank you," Eragon murmured, taking the scrolls from her. She nodded, unable to say anything. She turned away momentarily. She felt a hand on her back. "Arya, are you well?"

"I am fine," she snapped, her shoulders hunching protectively. "Go read."

Eragon hesitated, but nodded. He turned and stumbled out of her door. She stared after him, frozen. Her head was tilted back, her pale throat partially bared. Long, black curls tumbled down her back freely. She wasn't standing in the most comfortable position, but she couldn't manage to move. Her hands gripped her upper arms tightly. Her skin felt cold and clammy. She had never been quite so uncomfortable in Ellesméra.

She stumbled backwards, collapsing into a straight backed chair.

What had happened to her?


	7. Chapter 7

**I have a few things to clear up here, for the sake of an anonymous reviewer by the name of Untamed (). I haven't, as of yet, decided if I want to make this a romance. At the moment, there won't be any romance between any of the characters. Not yet. My style tends to be very slow. Is that bad? Maybe. ****I appreciate the fact that you think it's too slow. I'll try to remedy that. ****I didn't really see Arya as offended Eragon was near her when I wrote the last chapter. She just felt kind of distant. A little uncomfortable with the fact that ANYONE was around her. As for the fact that Eragon has had some exposure to politics...Yes. He has. He's no longer completely incompetent. That doesn't mean he's a politician. It doesn't meant that he could hold his own in a long debate with, say, Islanzadí. Thank you for your time. This story is dedicated to Restrained. Freedom, yadayadaya.**

Eragon leaned against Saphira's side, reading from a scroll. He remembered something Arya had told him once – there were elves whose words were a part of a game set into motion centuries before. He was beginning to understand that.

_Did you know that Queen Amyara created the midnight blood lily, _he asked Saphira. _Using the same spell she shared with her son, who succeeded her as the elven monarch? Who used that spell to create a flower which he presented as a gift to a human princess, the daughter of King Daven? The very same princess who rose to power ten years later and was most well known for struggling to ensure a deeper alliance with the elves. Her eldest daughter was supposed to take the throne, but she became a Rider._

Saphira laughed softly. _Excited?_

Eragon read on, engrossed. He didn't notice Arya approaching him until she tapped him on the shoulder. He stood and turned to face her, nodding. He started to greet her when she raised a hand to stop him.

"I require a word with you, Eragon, if you would," she murmured. "Saphira...If I may meet with you at a later point?"

_Of course, _Saphira agreed. Arya reached out and took Eragon's hand, surprising him. She bid Saphira farewell, then led Eragon towards Tialdari Hall.

"I need to show you something," she said, cutting off the questions rising to Eragon's lips. He fell silent and followed her.

* * *

><p>Arya took a deep breath, gesturing for Eragon to sit. She held out her hand to him. He stared blankly at her. She sighed impatiently, lifting it to eye-level. His eyes focused on the silvery mark, seeming not to comprehend.<p>

And then the glimmer of understanding flashed in his eyes.

"It hatched?" he demanded. Arya nodded.

"Eragon..." she whispered. She took him by the arm, leading him out to her balcony where a green body, approximately the size of kitten, lay. "May I introduce you to Firnen?"

"When?" he asked simply.

"Recently. Very recently. After I gave you those scrolls two nights ago." Arya paused. "The choice of the new human monarch has been narrowed down to two. I have placed my support behind one. My mother has done the same, with her own pledging the alliance of our people. They seek your approval."

"Who?" Eragon queried. A small smile curved Arya's lips as Firnen fluttered into her arms.

"Oh, no." She leaned closer to murmur her response. "I'm afraid that will have to wait until you hear it officially. A meeting will be held in the evening. Remember...stay silent and listen. Speak when you are certain."

"Will you talk to Murtagh or will I?" Eragon asked her.

"I will," Arya offered. "You have other things to do. You have a legacy to carry on, an empire to rebuild. Don't become distracted."

* * *

><p>"Nasuada!" Arya called.<p>

The woman stopped. She looked rather out of place, in her royal purple gown with her hair bound, among the towering pines and endless green.

"Hello, Arya," Nasuada greeted the elf. She cocked her head to one side. "Did you require something?"

"Actually, I came to wish you," she said. "It is your birthday, is it not? Would you like to share some tea before the counsel?"

"Thank you, Arya," Nasuada replied quietly. "Have you informed Murtagh about the time?"

"I intend to find him now. You can wait for me in my apartment if you like. I'll return soon enough."

She didn't give Nasuada a chance to argue, instead whirling around to walk away.

* * *

><p>"Murtagh," Arya nodded by means of greeting. "Have you been notified of timing of the meeting held this evening?"<p>

"No," he answered curtly. "But I presume you intend to tell me."

Arya raised an eyebrow. Murtagh sighed.

"Sorry," he muttered. "That was uncalled for."

"No matter," Arya replied briskly. She told him the time. He thanked her.

Arya turned to return to her home, then stopped. She turned back to face the other Rider. "I warn you of this, Argetlam – it would be wisest for you to choose a candidate for the human throne to support, to throw your lot in with. It would not be wise to have two with a reason to mistrust you."

"Is that a warning or a threat?"

Arya stared at him coolly. "Truly, it is neither. It is a statement of fact. Interpret it as you will. Ignore it if you so choose, but on your head be it."

By the time Murtagh had opened his mouth to reply, she was gone.

* * *

><p>"Happy birthday, Nasuada," Arya murmured, handing the woman a cup of blueberry tea.<p>

"Thank you," Nasuada smiled. She accepted the tea and a honey cake from the plate Arya held out to her with her other hand. Arya took one for herself then set the plate down, sitting across from Nasuada.

Nasuada seemed about to say something. Then she froze. Her mouth opened and closed. "Arya...? When did this happen?"

Arya was bewildered at first. Then she realized Firnen was asleep in the corner of the room. She smiled faintly and repeated what she had earlier told Eragon.

Nasuada stared in wonder at the sleeping dragon. "I've...never seen a baby dragon before. It's beautiful."

"_He,_" Arya corrected, gently but firmly. The small smile that had crept across her face widened. She extended her consciousness, brushing against his mind, feeling a rush of a feeling she could give no name to. Contentment...peace of mind...excitement. It was all of them and none of them. "_He _is beautiful."

"Yes, of course," Nasuada nodded, shaking herself. "My apologies."

Arya took a bite of her honey cake, the sweetness almost shocking to her tongue. She tilted her head to the side, chewing slowly and swallowing, washing down the mouthful of food. She came back to reality with a jolt, realizing she was staring at Nasuada.

"What is it, Arya?" the human woman asked her.

"Nasuada," Arya said slowly. "I've known you for most of your life. You are still very young. I have been a part of the Varden since before your birth. I would much prefer your ascending to the throne than Orrin, and you have the full backing of my people, but do you really want the throne? Do you want that responsibility?"

"It's not a matter of whether I want it or not," Nasuada answered immediately "But a question of who can lead the best. I believe that is me, more than Orrin. You can understand that. You've been fighting for this cause for most of your life. Far longer than mine. You have the time to live your own life now. But you don't plan to do so."

"No, I don't," Arya replied. "But my lifetime stretches far beyond yours. I have centuries. You have decades at the most."

"Politics has been all of my life," Nasuada pointed out. "Why not the rest of it? It's what I do best."

She drank the rest of her tea. "Don't worry about me, Arya. I can promise you that I'll be fine."

Arya smiled. "When have you not been? Nasuada...I'd rather not bring this up now, but I haven't had the chance to speak to you in private for days. I must ask you...release Eragon from his vow of fealty. You and I both know that it is probable you will ascend to the throne. If that occurs, a queen with a Rider obeying her would be just as dangerous as a Rider taking the throne himself."

Nasuada's dark eyes narrowed. "Do you accuse me of wanting nothing but power? Are you comparing me to Galbatorix?

"No," Arya enunciated. Her green eyes flashed in warning. "I am simply saying that that power should not be placed in anyone's hands, least of all a queen with influence of her own. His loyalty to you would prevent him from fulfilling his own duties in addition to that."

Nasuada thought about it, then nodded sharply. "It'll give Eragon's support more value."

Arya stood, walking lightly on the balls of her feet toward a corner of the room where she had left a bottle of wine. She fetched it and two goblets, returning to Nasuada's side.

"Here," she offered, pouring the wine. She sat down, raising her goblet. Nasuada did the same with hers, clinking them together. "To your twenty fourth birthday, and the future High Queen of Alagaesia."

"To Alagaesia," Nasuada chimed in.

The elf and human sat together, wine in hand. All they could do then was hope.


	8. Chapter 8

**Hi, guys. Sorry this took so long, but here's the chapter. A special thanks to my beta, Daddyscowgirl94.**

"There are several options for the next monarch of Alagaësia, all of whom have some claim," Islanzadí began.

"One, of course is Eragon," Arya continued. Her green eyes drifted over to the Rider, who looked vaguely shell-shocked. "However, for a race whose lives burn so quickly, another immortal as a potentate would be...unwise."

"Another option is Roran." Orik took up the explanation. He silenced Orrin, who had opened his mouth to comment, with a glare. The dwarf shifted his gaze first to the alert Garzhvog, then the smirking King Halfpaw. "However, even if we set aside the fact that Roran doesn't want the throne, he's inexperienced and uneducated. Hardly the best option."

"Thus, only two viable options remain," Islanzadí cut in. "Lady Nasuada of the Varden and King Orrin of Surda."

Orrin turned slowly to Nasuada, who was already looking at him. Arya's eyes flickered over to Murtagh, who sat next to her. His eyes were riveted on Nasuada.

"Do you plan on pursuing your claim?" he demanded, unnecessarily loudly. Arya frowned at him ever so slightly.

"I do." Nasuada's reply was soft, yet just as firm as Orrin's. "As leader of the Varden, it is my right and my responsibility to pursue the throne when I believe I can be a better ruler than any other."

"Really," Orrin said flatly. "And why do you believe this? Don't forget that it was _I_ who not only funded your army, but also provided many of your soldiers. Besides, I am the only human in this room with so much as a _drop_ of royal blood. You are not a monarch."

Arya tilted her head, wondering how Nasuada would react. Many elves and dwarves who took the throne of their respective people were not of royal descent. With humans, it was rare that a monarch was not.

"Nor was the first King of Alagaësia," pointed out an unexpected voice before Nasuada could say anything. All eyes turned to Murtagh, surprised he had spoken. He appeared relaxed, lounging in his chair. Only Arya noticed his knuckles, whitened from his hold on the armrests of his chair. "Until he declared himself one."

Murtagh didn't seem particularly inclined to continue. Arya understood his intent. He was making his support known to the room, careful not to say it overtly. Interesting. Did he have a politician's instinct? Or was it from his years within Galbatorix's court, years he had been surrounded by politicians? Or perhaps it was neither, just the nature of a man used to keeping thoughts to himself. Whatever it was, Arya approved of his word choice.

Orrin looked away from him, turning to face Orik and Islanzadí. "I presume you all will support her?"

"Aye. I can only speak for myself, but I will back her," Orik confirmed.

"As will we," Arya seconded. Islanzadí nodded.

"Of course," Nar Garzhvog growled. Grimmr Halfpaw yawned, covering his mouth with the back of his hand, saying, "Oh, all right."

"We as well support Nasuada's ascent," Eragon chimed in. Arya flinched almost imperceptibly. The king would pounce on that.

"Aha!" Orrin exclaimed, shaking a finger in the young Rider's face. "Who else would you support? You're nothing more than her servant, you swore fealty to her! How can your opinion hold such merit? As for the rest of the people in this room, not one of you is human, so how can you influence our choice in our ruler?"

Saphira raised her head from the ground by her paws and snarled.

"We do not interfere," Arya interrupted calmly. She resisted the urge to wrinkle her nose in distaste at the overly agitated king. "We do not interfere. Neither will we accept a leader of whom we do not approve. And when it comes to a dispute over the throne, we will back the one we support, no matter what backing her may involve."

"Are you threatening me?" the king spluttered. His face was growing red and his voice was steadily rising in volume. Arya lifted an eyebrow, staring coolly at him. She could smell the wine on his breath. Orrin put too much importance and took too much pride in his lineage and position. Orrin was not the one to take the crown after Galbatorix. He would be a gentler ruler than the last king, but he was not the person fit to rebuild the country. He would rule the Empire as it had been ruled. He was not the leader of a revolution.

"No," she enunciated, trying her best to remain calm. "I am simply stating a fact."

"Actually, Orrin..." Nasuada allowed her voice to trail off. The two words were all that were needed to draw the king's attention to her. "I'm glad you brought up the obvious question of Eragon's allegiance."

She turned towards Eragon. "Eragon, as a Rider, you have certain responsibilities that cannot be fulfilled as a vassal. Thus, I release you from your vow. I am no longer your liege-lord."

Orrin's jaw was clenched, his brow creased. His eyes darted from potentate to potentate, representative to representative. His glare fell upon Nasuada once more. Her gaze remained steady.

He lowered his head in a strange, jerking movement. "Then long live the queen."

"Long live the queen!" Eragon echoed. Orik and Garzhvog joined, taking up the chant.

From the corner of the room, Saphira fixed her eyes on Murtagh. He was slouched in his chair, trying to remain unnoticed. He was relaxed, but at the same time, ready to leap to action. It was the posture of someone who never let his guard down. He alone wasn't chanting. Something about his expression and stance reminded Saphira of Brom.

Saphira wasn't sure what to think of Murtagh. She had trusted him, but the young man seated next to Arya wasn't the person she had known, not the person who had travelled with her and saved Eragon. He had been scarred by slavery to a point of no return.

Saphira didn't see things in black and white. Murtagh was far from evil. But he wasn't exactly _good _either. Then again, was anybody? The war had changed each of them.

Saphira didn't know what Murtagh felt. All she knew was that she herself was content. The war had ended. She and her Rider were both alive. The new queen was a worthy one.

Soon, balance would return.


	9. Chapter 9

**Hey, everyone. I'm back. This story is dedicated to Restrained. Freedom. Enjoy!**

Murtagh stood, hidden in the shadows, away from the crowd of jubilant citizens. In front of them, atop an elevated platform, stood four people: King Orrin of Surda; the newly coronated Queen Nasuada; Eragon, head of the new Order of Riders; and Queen Islanzadí of the elves. Four of the most powerful people in Alagaësia.

It was Eragon who stepped forward to speak. Murtagh paid only cursory attention his words, instead focusing on the reaction the crowd had to them – the raucous applause, the cheers. The citizens of the Empire adored their hero, the hero who had committed atrocities himself.

Murtagh raised a sharp eyebrow to himself, considering it. Humans and elves alike regarded him as a monster, someone worthy of their disgust and horror. Eragon, so similar to him, was their hero. He didn't understand why.

"Eragon is a symbol," a voice murmured from beside him. Murtagh spun, hand flying to his sword. He relaxed marginally when he saw who it was. He didn't know how she had managed to approach him without him realizing it, but she had.

Arya raised an eyebrow at him and stared pointedly at his hand, still rested atop his sword's hilt. "At ease, Shur'tugal. I have no intention of attacking you."

Murtagh snorted doubtfully, but let go of the sword. He folded his arms across his chest and turned around again to watch Eragon speak.

"Do you find that interesting?" Arya asked, apparently determined to not allow him to listen.

"_What?_" he demanded.

"You see Eragon as a man," the elf said simply. "You see him as a person with flaws, see him as _Eragon. _Yet the people in this crowd, the people listening to him speak, they think of him as Shadeslayer."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

Arya stared at him. "Is it not obvious? To them, Eragon is more than a man. He is a Shadeslayer, someone that symbolizes hope and freedom. He's a hero, an everlasting, incorruptible ideal. He liberated them from a tyrant. The ends justify the means, Murtagh, and freedom is worth any cost."

"So Eragon isn't judged by the murders he has committed because he's doing it to liberate them."

"You and Eragon are both human. You both have positive and negative traits." Arya paused. It was Murtagh's turn to stare. Had she just given him...a _compliment? _It wasn't exactly a generous one. She spoke in the same matter of fact tone in which she always spoke. Yet she had just hinted that she didn't consider him evil. "You are both symbols...just symbols that, in the eyes of the people, represent two opposites."

A sudden surge of rage, inexplicable fury, surged through Murtagh. He turned away from Arya, away from the crowd, to face the wall that he stood beside. He slammed his fist into it. It took a moment for the pain to register in his mind.

His knuckles stung, the skin torn and bloody. He gritted his teeth.

"Self mutilation is completely pointless, you know," Arya observed. Murtagh scowled. He had never thought that Arya, so aloof and solemn, bordering on taciturn, would be one to be aggravatingly unhelpful. Certainly, he hadn't expected her to point out the obvious.

"It releases anger," he grunted, crossing his arms again. "Would you prefer I kill someone?"

* * *

><p><em>A symbol, <em>Murtagh thought. Since he had spoken to Arya, he had been unable to get her words out of his mind. Eragon, the farm boy, could be looked down upon, ignored, scoffed at. But Eragon was no longer that farm boy. He was a Rider, and a Rider that couldn't be ignored. A Rider nothing short of revered.

Whereas Murtagh...regardless of what he had done, he would always be a villain.

_You should not need the approval of any man, _came Thorn's voice. _You have done what is right, and done far more than these people could ever have done._

Murtagh didn't answer. It was one thing to not care if people approved of his actions. It was another to not care about being accused of being just as bad as Galbatorix. And Thorn knew it.

He had never had such an accusation to his face, of course. Because people feared him. They feared him in a way few people feared Eragon.

Criminals had reason to fear Murtagh's younger half brother. But the citizens who had done no wrong and committed no crime did not. At one point, on their way to Uru'baen, they had stopped. A man had come up to Eragon and spat in his face. Murtagh had been given a look of loathing, but the man hadn't dared to say anything to him, let alone spit in his face like he had in Eragon's.

Murtagh wasn't one to underestimate fear. Fear was a powerful force, one that he had come to have a grudging respect for. He feared the intangible idea of fear almost more than he had feared Galbatorix.

Fear was crippling, sometimes irrational. It manipulated people better than any person ever could. Most people had to use it to manipulate. The fear of death was most people's motivation to fight.

It was the fear of being alone that had turned Galbatorix the Rider into Galbatorix the King.

The fact that people feared him gave him power. But Murtagh had felt fear of a person, and he wouldn't wish that kind of fear upon his worst enemy.

**How obvious is what I was watching before I wrote this?**


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